


my memory is keeping the effigy

by brendonurie



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, brendon's (your) pov, wow! second person wow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brendonurie/pseuds/brendonurie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You distinctly remember learning about Icarus in the eighth grade. He'd had these grandiose ideas of flight and had made his own way to achieve it. Then, he flew too close to the sun, and his little wax wings melted and fell off.</p><p>He plummeted to his death.</p><p>You used to think he was an idiot; no one could get that caught up in their fantasies.</p><p>Mm, but today, you think you can see where he's coming from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my memory is keeping the effigy

**Author's Note:**

> brendon's (your) pov in case you missed it.

You distinctly remember learning about Icarus in the eighth grade. He'd had these grandiose ideas of flight and had made his own way to achieve it. Then, he flew too close to the sun, and his little wax wings melted and fell off.

He plummeted to his death.

You used to think he was an idiot; no one could get that caught up in their fantasies.

Mm, but today, you think you can see where he's coming from.

 

"Where are you?"

"I'm around the corner."

"'Kay."

The small tone rings in your ear to let you know the other end has hung up. You easily slide your phone back in your coat pocket, hands finding refuge in the warmth.

You round the corner, as promised, and spot him easily. Long, lanky, tall, spindly. Yeah, all those words. A mop of brown hair frames a milky white face. For a moment, you see glowing golden laurels resting atop his head, but they are gone as quickly as you spot them.

He finally looks up from his phone (a defensive measure, really; he wouldn't be caught dead engaging in conversation with strangers) and sees you. As he approaches, trying to meet you halfway, your stomach begins to do flips, but you're not sure why.

"Finally."

"I was only --" You glance at your watch. "Ten minutes late."

"Mm, ten minutes too many, if you ask me."

"Well, I didn't."

He rolls his pretty brown eyes at you. You feel your lips quirk up, your eyes crinkle at the corners, an involuntary reaction.

"We missed the bus; the next one isn't for another few hours."

"We could walk. Shall we?" You offer the crook of your arm, hands still buried in your pockets. You look over at him, red-nosed and dry-lipped, and he's staring at your elbow, and you curse yourself for doing something so dumb, so obvious, but he takes it. He takes it, and he had the good sense to wear gloves (fingerless, of course), so his hand is warm even through your layers.

You look at him again, and he sniffles, staring at the ground. You briefly wonder how someone can be so big and so small at the same time.

Your stomach does flips again.

 

Today, he opts for small talk.

“What did you do today?”

“I did a little writing, called my mom.”

“What did you write?”

“It’s not ready yet.” You breathe between every letter.

“Let me know when it is.” He smiles.

“Did you do anything today?”

“I, uh, I saw a movie.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“How was it?”

“It was --” He reaches for the nape of his own neck. “Good.”

“Good.” It’s your turn to smile.

 

You learned in chemistry about fire. It needs oxygen to exist; you don’t really remember specifics, but you know that if there’s no oxygen, there can be no fire.

You idly wonder the repercussions of having your breath taken away.

 

You fumble with your keys because it is cold and you are scared. The latch is loud and the hinges creak and you know you are home. Your lungs fill with air that is perfectly neutral to you; your own familiar scent somehow foreign to you alone. The smell of the rain outside does follow you in, though.

You flick the light on, and he flicks it off. You turn to inquire but he is there, he is close.

The blinds filter the grey-green light from outside and cast it carefully on the dingy brown carpet. The street nearby keeps the silence from crushing you both, but it would feel a little welcome now. He breathes a tiny breath and you can almost taste it.

“Are you --” He doesn’t finish and you don’t bother asking him to.

“We --”

“I know.”

 

Your bed is cold; you left the window open because you like to sleep in the cold and you live on the second story. It’s not something you really need to worry about. The comforter is discarded at the foot of the bed and the sheets smell clean, the pillowcase still indented from your head.

He is beneath you, and all the layers are making it difficult. It is awkward and you can’t feel him, can’t feel his angles. You feel a little angry.

His scarf, his coat, his sweater. He’s wearing just a thermal and jeans now, plus the gloves. He puts them to your face. The fabric is a little rough, especially compared to the skin of his palms. His thumb drags across your bottom lip and you let it slip just inside. He smiles up at you, the apples of his cheeks forcing his eyes closed. You take his gloves off and make sure to ball them up together before you toss them aside.

Your hands find the spots on his sides where his ribs end and rest gingerly there.

He suddenly remembers your clothing, and he begins to pluck at it. He helps you out of most of it, but stops at your shirt. You remove it yourself and he stares.

 

  
The air is cold around you but you can’t feel anything but heat as his mouth slips lower and lower on you. You writhe beneath him and he comes back up to kiss you. You take this chance to switch with him. You know him, you know his rhythm, and he knows yours, though he pretends to forget.

He makes small sounds as you move on top of him. He’s warm, but only in his core; his extremities now exposed and mostly unused. Frozen little callouses make bruises on your hips, you’re sure of it, but you’re inclined to ignore it. A sigh, and his chin tilts upwards, and you know you’ve lost him.

 

  
You are on stage in a smallish club, a guitar in your hand. It’s your third time playing through this chorus and your third time playing it wrong. It’s that stupid fucking F chord, and you keep playing a G instead. You cannot forget. You cannot forget some things. You cannot forget the anger in his voice as he scolded you again for playing a G where you should have been playing an F. You cannot forget the way someone else told him to step off, and the way you laughed, and the way he smiled (for your eyes only). You cannot forget the story of Icarus, and you cannot forget that fire needs oxygen.

 

You forget to play. Luckily, the song is mostly over. Your newest addition (replacement) meanders over, asking if you’re alright.

“Of course.”

He quirks an eyebrow at you.

You flash a smile and step back up to the microphone.

 

Mm, you can’t forget the way he forgot all your syllables except _“Br--”_ and you can’t forget the songs he wrote you.

No, you couldn’t even if you tried.

**Author's Note:**

> based on a misheard lyric from i wanna be free.
> 
> drowned our sorrows, laid 'em down  
> my memory is keepin' the effigy (the "F" a "G")


End file.
